


Contented

by Nny



Series: Month 1: Quantity (tumblr fic) [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is an idiot, M/M, appallingly fluffy, naps, unilateral decision making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles isn't sleeping at night. Derek worries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contented

Outwardly, Stiles looks fine. He looks good, actually, relaxed and happy and - Derek seriously cannot use 'glowing', he's not pregnant - but lighter, maybe. Settled in his skin.

Content.

He keeps smiling, and Derek wishes he could take that as the positive sign that it ought to be. Only it keeps _happening_.

He accepts the couch, that one's almost logical. Upside down on it, legs hooked over the back, maybe not so much, but it's fine. Curled over on a bar stool, slumped over the kitchen counter and drooling, that's a little harder to explain. He finds Stiles sprawled in a patch of sun by the window, in the driver's seat of the parked jeep, but when he finds Stiles snoring halfway up the spiral staircase it finally gets him. The reality of it balls up small and tight and hot and miserable in his stomach, but he'll - he's got to the point where he _has_ to - take anything he can get. 

 

So he doesn't say it right after they're done, he's not sure he'd have been able to, but once Stiles has caught his breath, once Derek's indulged himself stroking his hair back into something like order and stolen a couple more kisses, he can't put it off any more. 

"You should maybe go," he says, and Stiles squints up at him, confused. 

"What?"

"I think you should go home." Derek rolls over and sits up, tugging on a shirt - the one he'd been wearing is probably tucked down the side of the couch somewhere - and rubbing his arms where it's suddenly got cold. "I need to get some sleep," he says, because Stiles never does anything for himself. 

"Oh," Stiles says. Alone in the bed he looks smaller and, yeah, exhausted. "Yeah, absolutely." There's something a little weird in his voice, distant, so when Derek snags his clothing from the floor and leans in to hand it over he makes sure to take his time, brushing his lips against Stiles' slow, slower, open and lush. When he pulls away Stiles looks confused but happier, heavy-eyed. 

"You're okay driving home?" 

Stiles snorts. "I'm fine. It's not that late." 

Derek glances at the clock. It's getting close to 3am. That's why he has to do this. 

"Okay," Derek says, "good night." But he doesn't quite manage to stop himself snagging Stiles by the wrist on his way out the door, doesn't resist the urge to press him up against the wall and claim his mouth again. 

When Derek goes back to bed he can't quite settle, tossing and turning, watching the slow warm fingers of dawn light creep across the floor. 

*

Stiles comes over again that night, oddly tentative; Derek's on his knees in front of him before the front door is even closed, taking his time with it, leaving Stiles weak-kneed and babbling. It does the job, removes the hesitance from his voice, and he's happily settled on the couch and bitching over poorly translated Gaelic in no time. 

It's the kind of evening Derek loves best, calm and quiet and approximately 96% sarcasm, layered with take out and ice cream and more coffee than Derek had been aware two people could consume. He honestly doesn't want it to end but he grabs Stiles' keys from the coffee table with a metallic clash once Stiles' eyelids start drooping. 

"You want me to drive you home?" he says, and it's a moment before Stiles replies, occupied with pushing papers into his bag. 

"Nah," he says. "I'm good." 

Their kiss goodnight is a little shorter this time, but harder, like Stiles is proving something to himself. He's probably just tired. 

*

It's a couple of days until Derek sees him next. 

It's a pack meeting, people sprawled on all the furniture in the loft, and they're in good spirits, but it's Stiles Derek can't take his eyes off. He's slumped over in a corner of the couch, a throw pillow cuddled in his arms and his eyes half shut. He doesn't look relaxed enough, though, and the thumbprint bruises under his eyes snag something uncomfortable in Derek's stomach. 

"Stiles," he says, as the others are leaving, "can you stay a sec?" 

"Huh," Stiles says, something bitter in the edges of his voice, "I thought you'd forgotten how that word worked."

"What?"

"Stay," Stiles says. "I thought you were done with that." 

Derek folds his arms across his chest. 

"I thought you'd sleep better in your own bed," he says, and his tone has picked up something from Stiles'. "You obviously couldn't relax enough with me." 

"...what are you talking about?" Stiles says, sounding genuinely confused. "I've - dude, you can't not know I've been sleeping _all the time_ here." 

"Because you're not sleeping at night," Derek says flatly. Stiles flails at him, an expression on his face like he's overwhelmed with how ridiculous Derek is being, which is a level of hypocrisy that Derek has no idea how to deal with. 

"I _never_ sleep at night, Derek, seriously. How long have you known me? I have slept more since we started this than I've ever - I trust you, you idiot, I _relax_ around you, I fell asleep on your freaking _stair case_." He runs his hands through his hair, clenches them into fists halfway through like he's at the end of his rope. "I thought you were trying to break up with me, you asshole!" 

"What." 

Stiles marches over to him, grabs him by the wrist and hauls him over to the couch, pushing him down without any attempt to be gentle. Derek blinks up at him, still processing, still appalled. 

"Stiles, I - "

"Nope," Stiles says, shoving Derek's legs around until he's sprawled along the length of the couch, his head leaning against the arm. "You're not allowed to talk any more. Or make decisions, definitely not that."

Stiles lowers himself carefully on top of Derek, shifting around until he's comfortable, fussing with the positioning of Derek's arms. 

"Stiles, I'm sorry," he says softly, but Stiles presses his finger across his lips. 

"You're a dick, is what you are," he says, matter-of-factly. "Now shut up. Some idiot has kept me awake the last few nights so we're napping now." 

Derek nods, his lips brushing lightly against the side of Stiles' finger. It's not long before Stiles is snoring, sprawled in a position that doesn't look like it could possibly be comfortable, and his elbows are pointier than the ideal, but Derek will take it. 

He's content.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even going to justify this, it's ridiculous fluff because I haven't slept properly in a week. Sorry. :D


End file.
